


Time for tea

by MsCrow



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-17
Updated: 2010-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 03:21:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsCrow/pseuds/MsCrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Watsonn finds a love note from Sherlock he has no idea what is going through the consulting detective's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by some of the ace Sherlock/John writing on here I thought I'd have a go! Ok, this is my first attempt at the delight that is Moffat and Gatiss' Sherlock, but i love these boys! Be kind, let me know what you think!

John looked at the note in his hand for the fifteenth time since he had found it. Part of his brain noticed his hand wasn't shaking, the part of his brain which wasn't reeling from the words on the actual piece of paper. It wasn't a very large part. The words were shocking. He skimmed an eye over them, an eye which had seen bloodshed and anguish and pain but was too scared to let the other eye read the words on the page.

'John, I haven't known how to tell you this but I think I must, it's beginning to interfere with the job. In the interest of honesty and simplicity I think you should know that I find you very attractive, physically...' John didn't have to be an amateur detective to see that the author of the note had paused before he had written this word. 'I know you said all this was 'fine' but I am not sure if you really meant it. Rather than complicate things further I have decided to just tell you this and allow you the courtesy to decide upon your own actions until my own force you into something of which it would be fairer to give you warning.' What did that mean? Well, obviously not the finding me attractive ,physically, he added with a twist of his mouth. But the bit at the end, about forcing. God, what was going on? Even the word made his heart race, blood swishing loudly in his ears. Sherlock forcing him....no, no, get a grip man.

John sipped the cup of tea in his hand and grimaced, cold. He'd been standing here for at least twenty minutes, since he had found the note in the jar where they kept the tea bags. He'd laughed when he found it, what on earth was Sherlock keeping in the tea jar? Some top secret code? But then he made his tea and read the note. Over and over.

For the very first time in his life John Watson felt confusion. Not the silly, everyday 'what?' confusion, the confusion which sits deep in your chest and makes the world uncertain. His rational mind, skimming like a butterfly over the profound statement of the note, was amused and maybe flattered. But there was that part, damn that part, he cursed as he swigged the cold tea before spilling it down the sink and automatically switching the kettle back on. The part which had noticed Sherlock. Physically. Well, it was hard not to. He was like a long, pale alien. Not entirely safe, not entirely human but utterly fascinating. His eyes which bored through you, that smile, predatory, like a shark. The fine features, the unruly hair, the boundless energy, those hands, oh god those hands, John gulped.

How can it be that a rational human being, talented in the art of science, of medicine, someone schooled in war and understanding his fellow man might be so completely, stupidly, buggeringly blind about his own feelings? John gripped the counter top for support against the tide of realisation which was washing through him and leaving him, shipwrecked, on a new shore. Suddenly he saw the last few months in a new light. His defence of Sherlock when people misunderstood him, his weird pride at finding he was Sherlock's only friend, the smugness when he realised that Sherlock was jealous of his female friends. Oh my god. Oh fucking buggery bollocks. John's new consciousness woke up and shook itself like a happy Labrador and all those feelings, those longings, that lust came rushing in.

Sherlock's hands caressing an envelope, the fingertips prising it open gently. The sensuous way he wrapped himself in his scarf, his dressing gown. The way he looked when he came out of the shower, his dark curled hair limp against his long neck, his t shirt clinging to his still damp body. (He never bothered to dry properly, he didn't see the point.) His nipples pointed through the thin cotton, his long toes curled in the rug, his full mouth pursed at the rim of a coffee cup. The kettle, steam pouring from its spout, switched itself off with a pop which sounded indecently loud considering what John was thinking about. He jumped and guiltily recognised that all that thinking had made him very hard. He was still registering that fact when the door opened and Sherlock burst through the room, the front door swinging shut behind him.

He didn't speak as he banged the two shopping bags down on the kitchen table. He began to unpack one bag. His swiftness was methodical and precise. Milk, cheese, yoghurt in the fridge. Biscuits, bread, jam in the cupboard. He stopped and stood up suddenly and fixed John with that gimlet gaze. John pulled the kitchen chair towards him, to hide the embarrassing conclusion to his daydreaming and to avoid Sherlock's eyes.

"What?" Sherlock's voice was inquisitive, it was rarely anything else but under this was a slight tone of what? Amusement? "Did I put them in the wrong place?" Sherlock sounded exasperated. "Look, John I tried to remember which cupboard is for which product but you can't honestly expect to domesticate me. I've too many other things going on in my brain right now. At least four experiments, two cases and a thing" He added as he reached past John to grab the kettle. His face, his beautiful, terrifying face was inches from John's cheek for a second. The same part of his brain which had colluded with his genitals to give him a raging hard on was screaming 'kiss him you idiot'. John was shocked. He didn't know he had it in him.

"Tea?" Sherlock advanced across the room waving a tea bag and the kettle like an avenging angel. Some androgynous tea alien, John's mind was not behaving. He cleared his throat and clutched the chair.

"Lovely, would love... some tea." He squeaked, a little too enthusiastically. Sherlock arched one elegant eyebrow and, leaning closer, dropped the bag in the cup John held in his hand. It wasn't the hand that usually shook, that was the other hand. John looked down, so why was it shaking now?

It was at that point that the universe as Dr John Watson had previously known it ripped itself at the seams and danced away with the fairies. Sherlock brushed past John, ostensibly to get the sugar bowl which was on the counter behind him. His long thigh, clad only in those thin, expensive trousers he liked to wear, brushed past John. There was a hot flash of electricity jolting though John's body as Sherlock's leg made contact, however fleetingly, with the erection John was trying so hard to hide. Pardon the pun.

There was no mistaking the fact that Sherlock felt it. Let's face it the man could deduce the colour of your mother's knickers from seeing her lottery ticket, there's was no way he was not going to notice that his flatmate seemed to be sporting an enormous, painful hard on while they were making cups of tea was he? He stopped dead still. Almost in slow motion he turned his face to John's, their mouths inches apart. He raised that eloquent eyebrow once again and flashed that carachadon smile.

Inside us all there is a predator and there is also prey. A little tiny animal which freezes at the sight of danger, it longs to run away, to hide from what scares it and to live another day. Years of army training had taught John Watson to grab that frightened bunny by the scruff of its neck and kick it to the kerb. In his blind panic, John did the only thing he could, the only thing he was trained to do. He fought back.

His hand came up behind Sherlock's head and he grabbed a handful of that soft dark hair. Both of Sherlock's eyebrows rose into his forehead and he made a noise which sounded remarkably like a moan. The noise registered another blast on the Richter scale of lust which was amping through John's body. It gave him time. He licked his lips and went for the kill. Sherlock's lips were smooth and surprisingly warm. They seemed to scorch where they touched so that John felt as though his mouth was on fire. Sherlock's long fingers came up and ran over John's shoulders and into his hair. They tugged at the short, dark blonde crop and tilted John's head so that Sherlock's tongue could explore his mouth. The ragged breathing of the two men belied the gentleness with which Sherlock licked and teased the sensitive edges of John's mouth. Each lick, each tentative caress shot tremors of flame through John, he felt as though he might combust. Anything seemed possible in the surreal bubble of lust he was caught up in.

Their bodies had been far apart as though, despite their passionate kisses, they were reluctant to commit to what they were doing. In for a penny, in for a pound thought John with what was left of his rational brain and he used his other hand to pull Sherlock's long, lean torso closer, until they were flush against each other. He felt the unmistakable bulge of Sherlock's erection against his leg. He opened his eyes in surprise, his head still held in Sherlock's iron grip and his mouth being tortured into submission by his mercilessly wonderful tongue. Sherlock's eyes were wide open. Their blue laser gleam was frightening this close up. They were intent, ruthless and, god help me, thought John, fucking sexy. Sherlock blinked a long slow blink. Part of John wanted to run away, to use that time to leg it, jump out of a window, catch a cab but then Sherlock bucked his hips forward slowly and, all the while that deadly stare held John captive, unmistakably rubbed his hard cock against John's own tortured member. John's breath hissed out though his teeth, Sherlock's mouth stopped its kissing and he moaned again. He moaned John's name.

"John." It was a languorous, sensual sound. The sort of sound which might send entire monasteries mad with desire, that might melt the polar caps, crumble the most resilient resolve. And John's resolve was not that resilient.

John snaked a hand down between their bodies, Sherlock had pushed him back against the counter top and the edge was painful in his back but he it didn't even register with him. His other hand relinquished its hold on Sherlock's head, face it, thought John, I was only clinging on for dear life, and played down the front of Sherlock's open shirt, smoothing across the black t shirt he wore beneath it. John scratched his finger nail over Sherlock's nipple just as, he now realised, he had always wanted to do. Sherlock made that noise again, John could feel his thrusts becoming erratic, unfocused. As he pinched with that hand his other hand rubbed lightly over Sherlock's confined erection. Sherlock's head fell back, his mouth open, his pale eyelids flickering. More confident at this reaction John stroked harder. He had no idea what he was doing until the thought came to him that this was just like wanking off. Experimentally he slid his thumb over the tip of Sherlock's trapped member and was rewarded with another exquisite moan. Just like wanking off, he confirmed, but better.

John turned Sherlock's body, limp with desire apart from one very obvious part, until he was propped against the work surface. Sherlock put his hands back to brace himself against the smooth granite. He looked more abandoned, more free than John had ever seen anyone look before. More than the touching, the obvious desire and lust, it was petrifyingly intimate. John's hand pulled at Sherlock's shirt and t shirt until he could run his hands up over the smooth, almost hairless chest and he rubbed his palm over the tiny points of Sherlock's nipples. Sherlock's hips bucked forward; his head lolled back, his breathing heavy. John brushed his hands lightly down the taller man's body, nervous to take the next step. Fact, Sherlock was the most sensual and amazing creature he had ever laid eyes on, let alone touched. Fact, he felt enormously turned on, not just because of the fabulous reaction he was getting from Sherlock but also because there was recipricality, Sherlock wanted him, wanted John Watson as much as he wanted Sherlock Holmes. The thought buzzed in his head like the sound of traffic. But the next step? John knew that if he did what he really wanted to do that it would change everything. Kissing and some drunken fumbling, they could forget it after some uncomfortable days, he'd seen it before between soldiers, everyone needed comfort sometimes. But what he was about to do thrilled him to the core with lust and with fear.

And that was the word that tipped him over the edge. Fear. He had spent his life doing things in the face of fear, despite fear. That old training, that honing and sharpening spurred him on. Without giving himself any more time to think he dropped to his knees.

Sherlock looked down, once. His eyes were wide and his expression stunned. His mouth opened to speak but John's fingers on the zip of his trousers silenced him. He didn't stop looking as John licked along the thin fabric of his shorts, teasing his engorged flesh. Sherlock's mouth was still open but now he was breathing hard, his fingers gripping the granite work surface like they might make indentations.

John tried to think of the blow jobs he'd had. And then he tried to think of the good ones. He pulled down Sherlock's shorts with both hands and there was no going back. John had never thought about male genitals, he vaguely considered them as an ugly but crucial part of anatomy but this was different. Sherlock was circumcised, beneath the velvet smooth skin John could see the blood pulsing, the movement was so energetic that it caused the whole member to twitch slightly, as though it had a life of its own. John wasn't sure what he was going to do but now, looking at the intimate, beautiful part of Sherlock he wanted to kiss it. So he did. Carefully and with moist lips he kissed along the length, down into the dark curly hair which tickled his nose. From above he was rewarded with another long, drawn out moan. John smiled.

This time he tried a lick, a long slow, wet lick which ended at the tip of Sherlock's cock. He tasted salt and realised that the viscous substance on his lips was just how turned on Sherlock was. He swirled his mouth over the tip, stretching up to suck and lick the warm, purple head like it was a lollipop. Sherlock moved and John looked up. The look on his flatmate's face almost sent him over the edge. The wide blue eyes, usually so open, drinking in the world and its mysteries were dark with lust. His mouth was slack and he panted as though he was trying to steady himself.

"John, please." The words were barely a whisper but they went through John like a fire. Any hesitancy he had felt about using his mouth to pleasure this man flew right out of the window of 221b Baker St. Kneeling up and bracing himself against Sherlock's legs he put his mouth over the tip and swallowed all he could. He had no idea how much he could take and, when Sherlock began to thrust and buck against him, John felt himself begin to gag. He slid one hand around the base of Sherlock's cock and used his mouth the cover the rest, saliva and precum lubricating his hand so that the movement of the fingers, gripping and squeezing and his mouth and lips, sucking and licking, became one movement. It didn't take long.

Sherlock's long fingers gripped John's hair tightly, if he hadn't been so intent on what he was doing it would have hurt, it probably would tomorrow. Sherlock's body was shuddering, erratic and close to the edge.

"John, oh god, John, no, no, John." John knew that Sherlock was going to come, he knew that Sherlock was worrying about coming in his mouth, bless him , it was too late for modesty now thought Watson, on his knees sucking his flatmate's dick until the man was half mad with desire. He renewed his efforts, hoping that Sherlock would take the hint. Whether he did or not, or whether the sensations of hand and mouth just became too much for him John did not know but Sherlock's body bucked wildly and he cried out in a long, feral voice and John's mouth flooded with a salty taste which wasn't as bad as he thought it might be.

Sherlock's fingers were stroking his hair; John's head was against his pale thigh. Sherlock crouched down, John kept his eyes closed. He didn't know what to do now and his brain refused to think.

"John," Sherlock's voice was hoarse and gentle. "Allow me to alleviate this uncomfortable moment." There was a chuckle in his voice, a more relaxed sound that John had ever heard from him. It made him open his eyes. Sherlock's face was near his own, the eyes bluer than before, somehow more full of life. The long limbs stretched out on the kitchen floor, feet kicking at the edge of the table until it moved aside and made room for them both.

John lay down on the kitchen floor as though it was the place he had always wanted to be. He surrendered, for the one time in his life, he gave it all up. Sherlock's wickedly clever brain was matched by his wickedly clever hands, his mouth, his tongue. John felt all the tensions of the past few months, the ache in his leg, the worry, the stress all bunch themselves up into a tight ball which Sherlock brushed away as though it was dust.

Sherlock's mouth was on his nipples, teasing and nipping. Sherlock's hands were on his cock, stroking and slicking until the intensity was such that he felt like he might implode. He came violently; the only sound in the room was the two men breathing. They lay together, side by side neither of them speaking, their clothes in disarray. The clock in the living room ticked loudly on the mantel piece next to the skull.

"What brought that on?" John could hear Sherlock's eyebrow arching. He smiled.

"The note."

"What note?" John frowned, was this a game?

"The note in the tea bag jar...you wrote a note... to me." his voice petered out.

"Oh. Oh! That note" John propped himself on an elbow to look Sherlock in the face. He was afraid of what he might see there but he had to know.   
Sherlock was looking sideways at him, his arms splayed out to the sides, palms up.

"What do you mean that note? What other note could I be talking about? The note to the milkman? The one that says 'two pints of semi skimmed and John could you come and suck me off please?" John's voice was nearly squeaky with indignation now. Sherlock chuckled. John glowered.

"That note was part of an experiment I had completely forgotten about." John could tell Sherlock was lying. "There was a case where a note of that nature inflamed a situation to such a degree that one of the parties committed murder. Allegedly."

"Allegedly?" John sounded exasperated.

"Yes. I wanted to see if that kind of a note could have any effect on a normal, average person." John spluttered and flopped back down on the floor. The high he had been surfing was rapidly descending. Sherlock turned to face him. His long fingers grabbed John's jaw and turned him until their faces were nearly touching. John screwed up his face to show his annoyance. He was hurt. "Then I realised you weren't normal or average, that I actually meant what I had written and I decided against the experiment."

"It was in the tea jar. What was it doing in the tea jar Sherlock?" John's voice sounded thin and cold even to himself. Sherlock sighed and wriggled closer.

"Mrs. Hudson came in while I was just deciding what to do with it. I hadn't time to burn it, or eat it," he added thoughtfully, lost in the moment, John smiled in spite of himself. "So I put it in the tea jar. And forgot it." Sherlock's admission of fallibility was charming.

"Oh dear." John was laughing now, he couldn't help it. It was so ridiculous only Sherlock could have done it. Sherlock propped himself on an elbow to look at him, it was disconcertingly like being under a microscope.

"You're not angry? You can be angry if you like. "Sometimes Sherlock was just like a child. John reached out and hitched Sherlock's long leg over his hip, he stroked the knee absentmindedly.

"I'm not angry Sherlock, but is this something we're going to chalk up as an experiment?" His voice was cautious. In a moment Sherlock was sitting next to him cross legged and smiling like a lanky imp.

"Well I enjoyed myself!"He grinned, his eyes crinkled. He looked younger, more vulnerable. John nodded, still looking at the ceiling.

"Me too." Sherlock leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. There was a linger of his tongue, enough to send thrills of energy through John's body. John began to reach up, to hold that brilliant, maddening head in his hands and begin the whole thing again when Sherlock bounded to his feet.

"Do you want that cup of tea John?" he asked one eyebrow raised enquiringly, John laughed.

"Go on then." But Sherlock was already striding through to the bathroom.

"Pop the kettle on then, be a love eh? Oh and don't open the other shopping bag?" John sighed and got off the floor, less easily than he had got there in the first place. He looked into the bag.

"Not more love notes Sherlock?" he laughed. From the bathroom there was the sound of the shower being turned on, the thought of hot water sliding over that long body made John's mouth go dry.

"No. Just some spare ears from Bart's! "John dropped the bag in disgust. In the shower Sherlock laughed. "Forget the tea Watson I've found an interesting conundrum in here, there's just a particular spot I can't seem to scrub!" John smiled to himself and flicked the kettle off. There would be time for tea later.


	2. Liverpool St Station

We're walking away from Lestrade. He's standing in the massive glass and brilliant lights of Liverpool St station, his face streaked blue with the lights of the squad cars which surround the building and the ambulance that arrived too late for the victim. Sherlock had looked perfunctorily around the crime scene, seeming uninterested. He narrowed his eyes once. Asked some completely, as far as I could tell, random questions.

"Any money on the victim? £200?" He nods, Lestrade and I look at each other in utter bemusement. He nods again. Grabs Lestrade's notebook and jots down three more names and some numbers. He hands them to the confused policeman. "Watch out for these places in the next few nights." That's it. Lestrade stares at the bit of paper in his hand. It's blatantly obvious that he has no idea what Sherlock is on about. Sherlock smiles his shark's smile and turns, his long coat billowing out behind him like someone in a Victorian gothic novel. I trot after him, painfully aware of his brilliance and my utter incomprehension.

 

"That was exciting wasn't it?" He asks, glancing at me sideways as we enter the dark streets away from the busy crime scene. I glance back, still not understanding what is going on back there. Lestrade is silhouetted in the archway of the station, still looking at the notepad. I nod even though I have no idea what I was supposed to find exciting.

"Yes, yes it was. Very exciting." I don't sound convincing even to myself. Sherlock turns, stopping his long strides abruptly and fixing me with that look which has had me pinioned where he wants me ever since the incident with the note in the tea jar.

"Was it? Exciting?" His voice has taken on a darker, more intense tone. It's the sort of voice he uses to question people. I frown and swallow; I'm not ashamed to say he makes me nervous. He leans towards me; his breath is on my face, the heat of his mouth dangerously near mine. "How exciting John?" His hands push me back against the rough brickwork of the half concealed doorway we have found ourselves in. Then they begin a purposeful descent down my chest in the direction of the waistband of my trousers. There's a part of me wishing, hoping that the waistband isn't where they'll stop.

Sherlock is grinning, I am panting, it's not my fault, he's a force of nature.

"Exactly. How. Exciting. John?" The shark's face lowers to mine. I stop struggling. He chuckles. He's infuriating, his arrogance, his complete lack of concern for the fact we're moments away from a busy London street are maddening. And such a turn on. And he knows it. Cocky bastard. Commuters are walking to the station seconds from where he has me pressed up against the narrow doorway, his hands driving me to distraction and, from the hard bulge against my thigh, he's really enjoying himself. Like I said, Cocky bastard. He's grinning and it's one of those moments where I am convinced he can read my mind. "You love it." He whispers against my ear, the sensitive skin thrilling from his hot breath. I shake my head, not to disagree just in surrender. I wonder for the twenty billionth time how the hell this happened. How did I end up being molested by my genius, utterly infuriating flatmate? And enjoying it, I admit as he licks a slow progress down my neck, deft fingers undoing my buttons with stealth.

I decide that the best form of defence is attack. Sherlock isn't paying attention to my hands; his brilliant, frightening mind is on one thing. I slide my leg aside, he thinks it's so he can have free rein and he moans seductively at what he thinks is my compliance. He loves it when I let him do what he wants. The ego of the man, I sigh as he settles himself against me, not realising my hand is inches away from his now very hard cock.

He's busy now trailing hot, demanding kisses down my chest across to my right nipple. Sherlock's intensity and observation as to the preferences and dislikes of my body is phenomenal. I know and he knows that my left nipple is so much more sensitive, I have an almost imperceptible scar which slightly puckers the right and renders it a little numb. So he starts with that one, knowing that by the time he gets to the left one I will be putty in his hands. God, he is a genius. Almost painful bolts of desire short through me, not alleviated by the soft movements of his fingers at the inside of my thigh. If he wasn't so into it, so obviously aroused himself, I'd think this was all another case of Sherlock Holmes perfecting a skill. It's that too of course.

There's a noise down the dark road. One of the commuters has ducked down the side street to answer his mobile phone. Sherlock is perfectly still. His breathing is ragged as is mine and he presses against me, his body telling me to be quiet. I make my move. The fingers which have crept down without his noticing, I am learning new tricks from him every day, flutter by his erection. I am rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, it hisses through his teeth and the sound is erotic that I nearly just come on the spot. God. What has happened to me? I've shot people in a war for Christ's sake, and now this man has me trembling like a teenager. Sherlock's eyes widen as my fingers begin a slow circle over his hard flesh. Then he closes them in that long blink I have grown to crave. His body presses forward, pinning me securely to the wall and my fingers can't move about much but I manage to elicit another moan and maybe even my first whimper from those full lips.

The commuter is telling someone he'll be late, that he missed the tube. Sherlock, eyes closed beautiful mouth slack with desire, whispers.

"He's lying." I stop my movements; pull my hands up abruptly to cup his face. His eyes snap open.

"What?" he hisses obviously annoyed at the interruption. I raise my eyebrows.

"You're supposed to be paying attention!" I hiss back. He frowns, genuinely unaware of the problem.

"I was paying attention. Intensely." He pushes against me, bucking his hips against mine. The sensation is distracting to say the least. "I just overheard him." He's whispering directly into my ear now. Even though he's not saying anything particularly sexy just his voice is giving my legs a serious case of the jellies. He knows this, of course. "Now John, "he moans my name. "Please don't stop what your delightful fingers were just doing to my poor tortured body." I cave. You would too, there is something about the way that he is so self sufficient, so aloof and then he opens right up. It gets me every time.

The commuter's gone now anyway. No doubt off to his illicit affair or to meet his dealer. I push Sherlock away, just so I can reach inside his trousers and stroke along his erection. He puts his hands against the wall, either side or my head and leans towards me. For a moment I regret my actions. He's so involved in what I'm doing that he's forgotten all about my tortured body.

He is thrusting against my hand and moaning so loudly now that I clap my hand over his mouth. His eyes fly open, blue eyes piercing and eyebrows wickedly arched in surprise. I smile and increase the intensity of my stroking, squeezing and rubbing. I don't know if it's the hand on his cock or the hand over his mouth which makes him come so quickly. There's one to ponder John, I think to myself as I hear my name groaned out through my fingers over his lips. Maybe I'll bring it up next time he's being especially obnoxious, I grin.

If I was worried about being neglected I needn't have bothered. No sooner have I extricated my sticky hand from his trousers than Sherlock pounces. He bats my hands away and throws himself on his knees. To someone looking down the street the violence of his actions probably makes him look as though he's going to throw up. It's a carnal, visceral movement. Before I can regain my senses he has my hard cock out in the cold night air. The assault of the temperature only heightens my arousal. He probably knows that, probably did an experiment to prove it and could probably recite the formula for temperature drop to arousal ratio. Cocky bastard.

I'm not sure that Sherlock's interest in reciprocating sex is all altruistic. He definitely sees me like that bloody violin, something to be mastered, to be dissected by that massive intellect and played upon until it plays a tune to his liking but there is also a generous soul in that lithe, agile body. It took me a while to realise that his obvious delight in the power he has over me is based in lack of self esteem. I know, mad isn't it? Here he is, the world's only consulting detective, an IQ higher than the national debt of some developing country and he doubts himself. So every time I give in, every time I come for him, with him, in him, he knows it's because of him alone. Sherlock Holmes, the only man I've let touch my body like this. The only person I've let touch my life like this.

He smiles up at me, I swallow and I can feel my blood racing, crashing in my ears, hammering in my chest. I know what that mouth can do. I've seen it reduce people to tears, to wonder. I've felt it caressing my body until I didn't know whether to cry out in pleasure or frustration. But until now I have never felt it there. It was one of the first things I ever did with Sherlock; it seemed natural and right at the time. It still does actually. But for some reason we hadn't gone there with me. Not that I'm averse to the idea, god no. Sometimes I watched him eat or speak and I get all flustered just thinking about it. And he knew that, of course he did. All together now, cocky bastard. The amount of times he'd tongued a spoon with which he'd just stirred a Scotland Yard coffee, just looking at me that way so that only I knew just what he was thinking, well, one time I'd had to leave the room.

And now there was that mouth, grinning up at me. He even licked his lips. Argh.

"Don't look away John." His voice was dark and his eyes shone in the dim reflected street lamp. "I want you to watch." He blinked. All my defences were down and he knew it. My erection glistened only seconds from his face. He cocked his head slightly, put out his tongue and licked. Dear god. It was as though he was tracing liquid fire across me, his mouth was so hot and I was so cold now. Gentle lapping became more insistent, more determined. His tongue probed at the tip of my cock and I cried out despite myself, despite the commuters passing yards away from where we were. His hands were holding my hips and I thought that without them I would buckle under the enormous, overwhelming sensation of his tongue against me. So when he scraped his teeth lightly, I thought I might die.

Without thinking my head lolled back. His grip on my hips tightened. I looked down.

"Don't look away John." I nodded mutely. I couldn't do anything but feel what Sherlock was making me feel. I was that bloody violin. His mouth, his whole mouth was on me. He sucked a trail along the underside of me, flicking the fraenulum with his tongue. My hips began a rhythm of their own and his hands fought to hold me still. His eyes never left my face. I was simultaneously right there in the moment and also floating off watching John Watson shuddering and moaning while Sherlock Holmes put that gorgeous, divine mouth on my most intimate body parts. The image was so utterly erotic that I felt myself tipping over the edge.

He was still looking at me, holding me still with his eyes, his hands, when he opened his lips and swallowed me. His eyes narrowed slightly and some part of me wondered what he was thinking. Then every thought was swept away as he began to move against me. His tongue swirled fire over my tender skin and his cheeks, always chiselled and sharp like some statue of a god, hollowed out as he sucked at me. My hands were flat against the wall and his fingers left my hips and groped for them. He held my hand tightly, his eyes still locked with mine as we both felt the wave of desire rising and rising until I didn't care where I was or who I was. All I wanted was this man, this feeling, this intense experience of body and mind. I came, hard. I heard myself calling out his name. I didn't break his gaze.

It took me a while to regain my composure, hell to make sure I was still breathing. Sherlock bounced up on the balls of his feet, perky and pleased with himself. He grinned so widely I thought his head might fall off at the juncture of his lips. Then his expression softened and he leant against the wall next to me, stroking my head against his chest, gently kissing my temples. Bless him; he just has to remember sometimes that there are other people present. We stood like that for a few moments. I savoured the quiet, the feeling of mutual happiness, of togetherness. Commuters still buzzed along the street, oblivious to the earth shattering exchange we had just experienced. I looked up, breaking away from Sherlock's hands.

"Cocky bastard." I laughed. Sherlock smiled his big smile.

"Is it still cockiness if it's true?" he asked seriously, then he laughed too. From his pocket came the sound of an old telephone ringing. He grimaced, "Lestrade", he mumbled reaching into his deep pockets and pulling out my phone. I raised my eyebrows; I'd been looking for that all afternoon. He paused before answering. "I've lost mine," he said in a matter of fact tone. "I think I might have left it in the oven." He frowned, distracted by this train of thought. Then his face cleared and he continued "I think I've earned the right to borrow your phone now and again John. In fact I think a moment ago you actually claimed I was the son of god." He waggled his eyebrows, then frowned. "What does that make Mycroft?" He was still frowning when he answered the phone. Lestrade's voice was high and fast, there was obviously some problem. Sherlock wasn't listening.

"King's Cross or Marylebone?" he demanded before ending the call abruptly. "Come on, John, the game's afoot!" The excitement in his voice was unmistakable, this was turning into quite an evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this has a plot guys! Or hopefully anyway. :D thanks to Chandler1200 for just being. And to PrincessNala for the encouragement and enthusiasm! Write a review and let me know how I did!


	3. King's Cross

The woman's body was curled up on the dirty floor of King's Cross. From the look of her she'd been there a while, only noticed by her fellow travellers when her body had started to smell. Jesus, what had happened to us all? How could people walk right by a dead body? Sometimes London was scarier than Afghanistan.

Sherlock stalked around the body like some big cat. He circled this way, that way, crouching in and leaning back. The only other people around us were Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson. The latter was leaning on the glass wall of Paperchase, his whole demeanour screaming contempt. The rest of the police were outside turning away angry Londoners and holiday makers. The station was silent apart from the distant hum of their voices.

Suddenly Sherlock lunged, his face closer to that of the dead woman's than any other 'amateur' would dare. He sniffed her lips and turned his face to look up her nose it seemed.

"She's been forced into oral sex." He stepped back, coat flapping at his rapid movement. He steepled his fingers and furrowed his brow. "Where's the money this time?" In the background Anderson snorted. Sherlock whirled to face him. His eyebrows were nearly in his hair. "What? What?" he barked. His tone would have scared anyone else. Anderson just slouched back further and sneered.

"How can you know she was forced Holmes?" He rolled his eyes. Sherlock stopped and addressed his audience.

"How can I...oh god, you are so bloody dim! Firstly, she has minor abrasions on her lips, all pointing to oral sex. Kissing a man with stubble would have produced far more scraping of the skin, this is soft hair." He looked at me, why was I blushing? "Secondly, these abrasions are under her nose. This means she was forced against the man's body, far further than would be comfortable." He glanced over at me again, Jesus, Sherlock just stop it. Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan were now looking at me too. "Thirdly, she has bruising around the back of her head where her hair has been pulled."

"It could have just been rough sex." Anderson shrugged dismissively, "some women like that." Although his jibe was directed at Sherlock now Donovan was blushing.

"It wasn't, she wasn't aroused, she was scared." Anderson snorted. "If you don't believe me check her knickers, dry as a bone I'll warrant." I felt the tremor of shock that rippled between us all. I couldn't decide whether it was the suggestion to check the corpse's underwear or that Sherlock had mentioned sex at all which had people so ruffled. I smiled quietly.

"How can you force someone to..." Anderson trailed off, uncertain he wanted to show his ignorance. Sherlock strode towards me. There was a menacing look in his eye. Oh my god, what was he doing?

"John, your gun please?" Stupidly, blindingly, trustingly, I reached behind me and handed him my revolver, handle first. Sherlock whirled on Anderson.

"Kneel down! Come on! Get on your knees man!" He bellowed, the loudness of his voice crazy and deafening in the relative silence. It bounced back across the empty space. Shocked, Anderson stumbled to his knees, Sherlock towered over him, looming and terrifying. "Get your mouth on me bitch, NOW! Come on! I will shoot, you know!" Anderson's eyes were wide with fright, Lestrade took a step forward and then froze. I could see what they were all thinking, this is it, Freak has snapped. Anderson shook his head. Slowly Sherlock pressed the muzzle of the gun to his temple and pushed. I could see the skin reddening against the pressure. Anderson moved forward hesitantly, his hands came up to Sherlock's trousers. It was all Sherlock needed.

Sherlock stepped away with a flourish, like a magician who had done nothing more remarkable than pull a rabbit out of his hat. Anderson slumped forward. Lestrade gave a nervous giggle. Donovan rushed to prop Anderson up from where he had fallen. I looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. His face was a beatific grin.

"What? Just proving my theory." He turned and walked across the concourse. "Is this coffee place still open?" He shouted as he strode away.

I caught up with him as he helped himself behind the counter. He was still grinning. I cocked my head and tried to look stern.

"Sherlock, that was... just wrong. In so many ways." He looked at me, his face serious, almost upset.

"It was? Oh. I thought you'd laugh. He was actually going to...ugh." He shuddered then leaned towards me. "Mind you, the thrill of power was quite... hmm." He looked pensive. "Maybe I have tendencies towards sexual domination? Hmm." He sipped his coffee. I spluttered. It was all I needed, Sherlock into bondage. He stepped forward, pushing me against him. I couldn't fail but notice how hard he was.  
"Hmm... quite possible John. How interesting."

"Er...Sherlock, you alright?" Lestrade was in front of the counter, his look wary. I spun around but not before Sherlock had grabbed my hand. He wasn't going to test his possible tendencies now was he? I had a fleeting vision of me trying to talk sensibly to Lestrade about Sherlock pulling a gun on his forensics officer while Sherlock, in some bizarrely sexual way, held my arm up my back. I closed my eyes briefly and tried to breathe.

"He's fine now. Sorry." I seemed to apologise for him a lot, a bit like the parent of a toddler who has just destroyed your home.

"Yes, yes, fine now Lestrade. Completely fine." Sherlock's voice was calm and controlled, betraying nothing of the way he was using my hand to rub against his hard on. I must have been going blush red, or white or something because even Lestrade stopped his relieved smile to check on me.

"John? You ok mate?" Sherlock gave himself a final squeeze with my hand and released me.

"Yes. Yes. Fine, fine. Just... you know..." I waved vaguely in the direction of the now sobbing Anderson. "Shock, you know." Lestrade nodded. He didn't want to know, I could tell. Sherlock leaned onto the counter, his eyes fixed on Lestrade but half pinning me to the work surface. His hard cock jabbed into the small of my back, he gave his hips a wriggle. He was loving this. Monster.

"So, worked it out then?" He was teasing, he knew Lestrade hadn't worked it out at all. Lestrade knew it too and his face fell. "John's worked it out, haven't you John?" Sherlock turned and smiled at me, he knew that he was too close for comfort. Of course he knew that, he observes people all the time, their social courtesies but he really isn't bothered what any one thinks of him. As witnessed by his actions when challenged by Anderson. I sighed, reluctant to show off, to prove to Lestrade that he really was as hopeless as Sherlock thinks he is.

"Monopoly." Lestrade frowned.

"What? The board game? Eh?" Sherlock sighed and, mercifully releasing me from the weight of his body, leaves the coffee booth and begins explaining his theory, waving his hands around expansively and enjoying himself immensely. I wonder absently if he still had a hard on.   
Lestrade walks us to the now crowded doorways of the station. The ambulance has taken the body now that Sherlock and Anderson have done their bit. Even the police can't keep King's Cross closed for long so the commuters and other travellers are clamouring to get in. Lestrade has a lot to deal with but he's still talking Sherlock's theory through because it's the only lead he has.

"So, you think the killer is playing a game of Monopoly?" He shakes his head, but whether it's at Sherlock's idea or incredulity at the machinations of the criminal mind I'm not sure. Sherlock glances briefly down at the frazzled man walking beside us.

"Yes, both victims had £200 carefully placed on their bodies. That's how much both stations cost in the game. Someone's buying the transport." This last comment is to me, he's nodding in approval. "Most people go for Park Lane and Mayfair but the Utilities and the Stations prove more lucrative in the long run." I goggle at him, is he really discussing board game strategy? He frowns, catching my expression and adds, "Christmas with Mycroft." I nod.

"Why would they do that?" Lestrade asks just the question I was thinking. Sherlock shrugs like it's not important.

"Because it's fun? Because they never got to win when they were a child?" Something about how he says this, something bitter and tight, makes both Lestrade and I look up at him. His face is impassive. We reach the glass doors and a uniformed officer lets us through. Sherlock strides out into the pale sunshine, I thank the officer, smile to Lestrade and follow him.

"If he thinks of anything...." I mumble, Lestrade nods, it occurs to me I am Sherlock's interpreter.

"If anything else happens...." he answers, I nod and hurry after Sherlock who is hailing a cab. One pulls in to the kerb almost immediately, how does he do that? He jumps in, seeing me at the last moment and flinging the door back open. How considerate. He pats the seat beside him, I sit down in the opposite flip-down chair. He grins.

"Home? We could test out my new theory?" He suggests looking out of the window dismissively. He's at his most dangerous when you think he's ignoring you. New theory? I'm still thinking about Monopoly and it takes me a moment to catch up. Oh. That new theory, the bondage one. I blush and stammer.

"Sherlock have you always been this highly sexed? I mean, what did you do before we....? No, don't tell me!" I hold up my hand as he turns back to me, smiling, about to explain just what he used to do.

"It's a well known fact John that libido is increased by sexual activity. The more you get, the more you want." He smirks. God help me.

"Is it? I've never heard of that theory, is it a medical theory?"

"No. I read it in Cosmopolitan" He's staring intently through the window and I realise we're driving through Soho. I follow his gaze and quickly look away as we pass a gay sex shop. Sherlock looks like he's about to tell the cabbie to stop. I hurry the conversation on.

"You read Cosmo?" I laugh. He looks back to me, smiles slightly and shakes his head.

"Only for research purposes. It's important to know what nonsense people are being fed. Anyway," he stretches his legs towards me, invading my space, "I now agree with this theory. Having put it into practise and tested its veracity." He smiles and there is something menacing in the smile. Once again I feel like the subject of one of Sherlock's experiments. Like the eyeballs in the microwave or the head in the fridge.

"Sherlock we can't just fill all our spare time with...." I flail a hand, unwilling to finish my sentence. He's out of his seat and kneeling between my legs before I can stop him.

"What?" he says, I glance round to see if the cabbie is looking. In the rear view mirror his face is telling nothing but his eyes dart up and away. "What?" demands Sherlock leaning closer. "We can't just fill all our spare time making you come with my mouth? With your hands on my cock?" He knows he's pushing it now, knows that when he talks like this I have little control. Then he tops it all. "I could always put it somewhere else, something we've not done yet?" He raises an eyebrow and the cabbie swerves the car.

"Sorry gents," he shouts to us never looking up from the road, "bloody pedestrians!" Sherlock smiles a slow smile and my mind races. Did he really just suggest? He did. Do I want to...? Oh god. I might.

To buy time I look out of the window. We're nearly home. Part of me is panicking and another part is getting far too excited. Why does this seem like such a big step? After all, we're pretty comfortable with our bodies now aren't we? Sherlock's long, pale fingers are stroking my inner thigh, it's not helping me focus but I think that's the point.

I've never done what he's suggesting. I have no idea how it will feel, if it will hurt, will I like it? It occurs to me that I need some experience before I can let him do that. I even shy away from the actual words for the act, me, a medical man. Maybe this is my way out? A gracious way out that Sherlock will turn down and the proposition can sit on the shelf for a while, chance for me to think it out. I smile and he sits back on his heels, he thinks he's won.

"How about if I try first? With you? I mean I've at least got experience in that area." If I think I'm going to shock him I am wrong.

"You mean you have experience penetrating another person but not in being penetrated?" I glance back, the cabbie's eyes are starting out of his head. I smirk, Sherlock's grin widens. I nod. Sherlock considers this for a minute, I see that amazing brain filtering, calculating, assessing. Finally he comes to a conclusion and nods, the grin is even broader now.

The cab pulls in to the kerb at 221b Baker St. Sherlock bounds out and leaves me to pay the cabbie. The poor guy is sweating and can't meet my eyes.

"'Ave fun gents." He says and then immediately regrets his words. I waggle an eyebrow.

"We'll try." He can't get away from the kerb quickly enough and his tyres make a dreadful noise. Enough to bring out Mrs Hudson.

"Hello boys," She always calls us boys, she's like some school matron from a Boys' Own magazine in 1920. "Doing anything nice?" Sherlock rushes past her, taking the stairs three at a time with his long legs.

"John is!" he calls down the stairs, stopping at the top, turning and grinning at me. I blush as Mrs Hudson turns to me enquiringly.

"Oh yes?" She's so nosy but it's helped us out on more than one occasion. This is not one of them. I can't answer because I don't know what to say. Sherlock has all the answers, obviously.

"I'm taking him somewhere he's not been before!" He calls down, unlocking the door and beckoning me with a long finger. My plan to put him off doesn't seem to be working. Mrs Hudson smiles at me and pats my arm.

"Ooh that's nice John." She smiles, "make sure you protect yourself from the elements...it looks like it might rain." I swallow, upstairs Sherlock chuckles. Mrs Hudson goes back into her flat and I walk up the stairs like a man going to the gallows or to heaven. I'm not quite sure.

By the time I get there Sherlock is taking off his shoes and socks. On the floor in a heap is his coat, shirt and t shirt. He leans on a chair to remove his last sock and looks up at me. I must look surprised.

" Better get going John, there might be another murder at any minute." And he grins gleefully, this is the best day Sherlock has had for ages. I shake my head, I can't believe it. Socks removed, he goes for his trousers and, before I can say anything, he has them off and then he peels off his shorts. His body is beautiful. He is lean and angular. Any androgyny which might be suggested by his clothes and his demeanour vanishes once he is naked. Pale skin envelopes toned muscle, not bulging and over developed but smooth and lithe. He's like a coiled spring, I can almost feel the energy coming off him. He stands perfectly still, looking at me. His hands are steepled together in his favourite contemplative manner. And he is hard, so hard I can't stand to just look at him, even though I want to. I want to drink this perfect picture in, burn it into my memories forever. But I have to touch. I have to.

I step towards him, he reaches for the hem of my jumper and is pulling it over my head at the same time as trying to kiss me. I am laughing, this is how I imagine Sherlock's Christmas presents must feel. He is smiling and unbuttoning my shirt. His hands are cold and I gasp as he reaches for my nipple with his smooth fingers. The right one, of course. He doesn't need to turn me on, I can feel my erection, painful in my jeans. The prospect of fucking him has had a frightening effect on my body. But he wants to touch me, he's enjoying it, enjoying me. We are both grinning broadly.

In a business like fashion he unbuttons my jeans and begins to wriggle them down, a look of pure delight flashes across his face when he realises how hard I am.

"Fantastic!" He actually claps his hands together. He's not camp at all, he is exuberant and very happy. I am laughing now, fighting my way out of my jeans. He pulls me onto the floor. Every time our naked skin touches there is a wave of desire washing over us. I know what he is feeling because I am feeling it too. I've never experienced anything like it. It's overwhelming and intimate. His hands flutter over me and I return the gesture. Before long our delicate touches are more firm, more purposeful. Our mouths mesh together, he crushes my lips, tasting me as though he too is memorising the moment. We savour this sensation of lust and mounting pleasure. His hands are caressing me, stroking in sure and certain ways. My cock looks a deep purple red in those pale hands, I find myself watching, the sensation and the image combining to an almost unbearable crescendo.

"Stop, Sherlock." There is desperation in my voice, he hears it and his fingers become light and teasing. "If we're going to.... do this, " It's lame and I know it, but what can I say? "We have to get...." I trail off as he licks his hand and once again begins the torment. He smiles at me, a big grin full of dangerous and exciting thoughts.

"Are you saying you're going to need some lube if you're going to fuck me? Or is it a condom you want? " he asks innocently. The eyebrows give him away, they usually do. I nod, I daren't do anything else.

"My room, top drawer under the socks. Black bottle. There's a packet there too." I whisper, not believing what I am saying, what we are doing. As quick as a fox he leaps up and bounds away. He's like a desperately erotic Tigger when he's in one of these moods. Don't tell him, but I love it.

I lie there on the floor for a second while I hear him crash about, wincing at the damage he must be wreaking in there. Then he's back, bottle and condom packet in his hand.

"Allow me." His voice is dark and I watch those sharp teeth rip the edge of the silver packet carefully. He takes the pale pink sheath in those long fingers and sits it on the tip of my erection. Then he leans forward and with only his lips he smoothes the material down as far as he can. I hiss. If the feeling of his mouth on me wasn't enough then the sight of him concentrating and careful on me is seriously erotic. God. Sherlock has a massive intellect and right now it is all totally focussed on me. On my hard on actually. When the condom is rolled down as much as he can mange with his mouth he uses his fingers. As he pinches the tip slightly, making sure to stroke his fingers across the head of my cock as he does so he smiles up at me. I have never felt so well treated in my life. Cherished. I feel like he just performed an act of worship. "Where would you like me John?" Each word is punctuated by a kiss up my body until he is leaning over me, breathing heavily.

A good question, I have no idea. He takes this all in and pulls me to my knees. He kisses my lips, my eyelids, my cheeks. He moves lower down my neck, nipping and sucking until I am gasping. All I want is to feel him, to be inside him. He whispers in my ear.

"I think I might lie on my back, it'll be more....familiar for you." The chuckle in his words is not cruel, not aimed at my insecurity or lack of experience, he's excited, impatient. "God , I want you John." He murmurs as he lies back, he offers his body to me. It gives me confidence.

I wriggle nearer, my hard cock bobs against his thighs and he blows out a long breath. I reach down and draw a lazy path along his chest, past his navel and begin to stroke him lightly. He thrusts up into my hand.

"Now John, please now." It's all I need to hear. My worry, my performance anxiety, whatever you want to call it, melts in his burning stare. I slick the lube over my cock and run the slippery liquid over Sherlock's too. My hands keep moving until I am at his entrance. Abandoning all reserve and looking at his beautiful face, alight with desire I slide a finger into him. He stiffens slightly, his cock rubs against mine. I have to do this, I have to do this now. I want to be thrusting inside him, feeling him tight around me, listening to the sound of his voice as I take him, as I make him mine. Briefly I use two fingers, just to convince myself I'm not going to hurt him. He hisses but it's not with pain. Encouraged I decide to go for it.

I push his legs wide apart and I continue stroking his cock with one hand as, with the other, I manoeuvre myself into place. Time seems to slow down, he is looking at me and I am inching slowly inside him. He pants, I am breathing hard. I am trying to go slowly, I don't want to hurt him but the feeling is so intense, his body so tight around me, that I am almost losing control. His hands come up and steady my hips. He doesn't speak he just guides me. He shifts a little and some curvature of the body, some obstacle moves too. Suddenly I am in him as far as I can go. He sighs a long, slow sigh. Then he smiles.

I prop my hand against his knee and draw myself out slowly. The sensation is like nothing I have ever felt before. It's as though his body is reluctant to let me go. The next thrust forward is easy, smooth and I gasp with the overwhelming fire which is stoking through me. Sherlock's long fingers are on my nipples, much more of this and I'm going to come. I decide I need to take some action of my own. My pushing becomes rhythmic, measured. I grab his hard cock with my free hand and I mirror my strokes in and out of his body with my hand , up and down, in and out. Sweat forms on my brow. Sherlock is pushing up to meet me as I thrust forward, the sounds coming from his open, unguarded mouth are beyond sensual. We move faster, together. Our breathing and the sound of our skin sliding together are the only sounds in the room until he speaks.

"Oh god, John. Harder. Harder." His words course through me like electricity and I redouble my efforts. The careful rhythm of before is now a desperate combustion, a forest fire consuming us entirely. Sherlock comes, his cock jerks in my hand and I see and feel the spill of white across his stomach and my hand. His muscles tighten beyond what I thought possible and that, coupled with the look of him, pale face flushed, half curving up as though his whole body is led by that spilling organ, is too much for poor John Watson. I come, stars and lights in front of my eyes. I know I am shouting his name. I hear myself tell him he is beautiful, that I am all his, that I love him.

As we lie there it is these last words that pound in my brain with the blood and the endorphins. Neither of us speak, we are too breathless for words. Sherlock curls at my side and I stroke his hair. We are sticky and exhausted. I am wondering what I am going to do. Did I mean it? I don't have to consider this for long. Of course I mean it. No one has ever changed my life in such a way before him. And a change for the better, the best.

"John?" Here it is, the moment I dread. I expect the scorn, the sarcasm even though I have no reason to expect these things from him. I have no evidence for this conclusion, as he might say. No, this fear is my own insecurity. How could this marvellous, beautiful, clever man love me?

"Hmm?" It's all I can manage to get out. My heart pounds as he props himself on an elbow and looks at me.

"Will you text the word 'Marylebone' to Lestrade for me please?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek. Erm... right. so, review? Let me know what you think. Thanks PrincessNala babes! Love you OHOB!


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